


Black Mesa

by Dryad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, NC17, Other, Violence, Westernlock, eventually, probably some other tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 02:34:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3961159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the run for his very life, Gregory Lestrade finds that there are worse things than to be hunted by James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Mesa

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea about this a couple of years ago, and then I saw [Risah's art ](http://imrisah.tumblr.com/tagged/sherlock_art)and this demanded to be written right! now!

Gasping, Greg flung himself down on the flat top of the rock, put the glasses to his eyes. Yeah, there was Moriarty, that fucker, and Moran too, plus a few other assorted louses. 

_Shit._

What the fuck was he going to do? Sooner or later they were going to find him, and that was the one thing that absolutely could not happen. Couldn't chance it. But now he was stuck on top of this goddamned pile of fucking rocks until nighttime, and if he was really lucky, none of them would think to search the whole thing. He was pretty high up and the rocky outcrop was long if not necessarily wide. Even so, if they were to split up, start at each end, he was a fucking goner. He might already be a goner. No water, not a scrap of food, no horse since he'd ridden the last one until it had dropped. He spared a moment for regret - that had been a good horse. Which left him trying to get the hell out of here on foot, which was going to be a problem with only the one boot fitting properly.

Or he could try and steal one of their horses when they settled down for the night.

_Fuck._

He rested his head on his hand for a moment. Sweating like a slab of ice in the heat, except he was far from cool. Okay, think, _think_ , man. Steal a horse. Walk out. Steal a horse. If he walked, he wouldn't make it far. Looking around again, besides his pile of rocks there wasn't much to see. Mostly flat land, or big bald hills with lots of scrub brush and tumbleweed, the occasional cactus. Should've gone South to Florida, Virginia, maybe even the Carolinas. Should've gone North, Illinois or the Dakotas.

_Dammit._

Faint sound had him reaching for the glasses again. Moran was on foot now, crouched down and doing hocus-pocus hand gestures. It was easy to tell it was Moran because he always insisted on wearing those goddamned silver epaulets from the War. Shined 'em up nice and bright every morning, like he used to do with his boots when he still in India. Right bastard. Once more Greg wished he'd just stayed out of Hartford, but no, he just had to chase Maggie all the way out of Boston, hoping she would ditch her suddenly new fiance and come back to him. Look how well _that_ had worked out. She was in Hartford, living her life filled with ease while he was here in…wherever the hell he was, running as hard and as fast as he could and losing ground with every step taken.

Well, it was his own foolishness that he was here now, a cloudless blue sky above and warm stone below. Greg shifted, watched the riders below mill about aimlessly. So far, so good. Not a one of them had done anything beyond glance at the rocks, and even though Moran was still staring at the ground, Greg was pretty sure he was nowhere near the tracks he was sure he had left behind. Hard not to, since he was near to dragging one leg. Maybe they would be mistaken for snake marks…or something. Indians using weird signs. Lizard tracks. Anything except a person.

Chance would be a fine thing. "Yeah," he muttered to himself. Half the riders, three, no four of them, had peeled off towards the far end of the rocks. That was bad, real bad...or was it to his advantage? All he had to do was steal one single horse...think about the rest later. But he couldn't, because if he stole the horse now, it would be obvious he wasn't the guy who had ridden the horse here in the first place, so he really was going to have to wait until night fell.

Okay, okay, _okay_ , he could do that, he would do that. He was going to survive this, he was going to make it out alive, he was going to go to San Francisco or Seattle or maybe up to Vancouver or even further, check out the gold fields, maybe make a mint. All he had to do was get away from Moriarty and his cronies and he could live free. Perhaps even go so far as to change his name. Forget 'Lestrade', turn into Blackfield or Turner, hell, fuck it, make himself a Holmes, yeah. Gregory Holmes, ha! Now that would be a turn up for the books.

So. There was no way to keep an eye on both groups of riders at this point, he was just going to have to stick it out. 

Carefully pushing himself backwards until he thought he was no longer in sight, he was even more discreet and made sure that when he sat up all he could see was rock and sky. Okay, now to check out what he could do. 

Observe, that's what he had to do. He was in a little depression in the outcrop, a shallow bowl tilted off centre. To the left the outcrop continued higher, turning into a stack of gray spearing the sky. Before him was a giant of a boulder precariously balanced on the lower lip of his bowl. Big as a house, it looked like it could roll off at the touch of a finger, or roll back and crush whatever was underneath it. On the right, the upper lip of the bowl and the smooth path he had taken from the ground. Not the only path, mind, just the one he had found the most difficult. The rocks were full of cracks and fissures and yeah, _fuck_ yeah, there was a little gap further under that boulder, an overhang that he might just be able to slip into, wait it out. And yet, surely it was really obvious? Having said that, he hadn't noticed it when he had come up here - then again, he hadn't exactly been looking for it, either. And if he could stay here until it grew dark, then creep out - yeah, yeah.

Keeping his bad foot up as much as possible, Greg scooted down on his hands, bum, and other foot as quietly as he could. It took a painful couple of minutes to get to the fissure, and he rolled onto his belly to see if anything was lurking in the shade. As far as he could tell, nothing was moving, which was fantastic. Late afternoon was coming on, hopefully the biting and stinging critters would be out getting the last rays of sunshine before getting back to their lairs. Just to make sure as much as he could, Greg swept one arm through the space. God willing, it would be enough.

The way was narrow, but he was able to shove and scrape and drag his way in until he was under the boulder all the way. Christ, he could barely breathe! Rock pressed against his chest and his back, his foot throbbed in whatever position he could put it in, pointed up, pointed down, sideways.

His breathe stirred up the dust, made him want to cough, but he forced himself to keep quiet. He wished he could take his overcoat off, shove it to the side along with his hat. At least the shade was good, a bit cooler than under the blaze of the sun. He no longer felt like his brain was going to boil out of his head.

He wondered what the odds were of falling asleep. He could use the rest after days and weeks on the run. Funny to think that at one time he was convinced he'd escaped Moriarty _and_ Moran. What a damned fool he'd been. He could no more escape those two that the sun could escape the moon.

Shit. 

Sweat rolled down his cheek and he laid his cheek on his hands, looking out towards flat rock he had come down. There were a few scuff marks...well, it was what it was. He closed his eyes, only to open them a second later at a sound, or something. Something...he couldn't put his finger on it. The hair on the back of his neck crept up - he was sure he had made a mistake, that he had to take the chance to run - _RUN!_

And there it was again, that soft sound...fabric on fabric? Leather on leather? Greg took a breath as deep as he could, held it -

Movement to the front and left. The sole of a boot, then a toe. Slowly walking forward, cat-like, creeping. Oh, stealthy, and quick, too, to get up here from the ground so soon. Greg was impressed, it had taken him twenty fear-filled minutes to hobble up from the steepest side of the outcrop, and even then only the horror of falling had kept him going.

Another step. A pause. Now Greg could see both feet, and the fringe of buckskin trousers. Okay. Boots and buckskin, a white man, maybe one gone native? Before he even had a chance to ponder the question further a familiar face was looking at him. His heart in his throat, Greg blinked and whispered, "Sherlock?"

**Author's Note:**

> So...this is a WIP? There is no schedule, I only have the very faintest idea of a plot, there probably won't be an update for a while, and I'm really sorry about the cliffhanger. I just seem to find it impossible to write a complete story in under 1500 words. See also: My FandomAid story that I am editing right!now! and hope to post within the next couple of days.
> 
> Once again, sorry for the cliffhanger...


End file.
